"They" (you know who 'they' are) Don't Want you at the Table Unless you Have a Mouth Full of Fucking Genocide Joy

mental gymanistics takes an average smart person with compassion and empathy and turns her into a little dictators, inverted totalitarian and gigabyter goose stepping fascist . . .

“While the Nazi regime aimed at the constant political mobilization of the populace, with its Nuremburg rallies, Hitler Youth, and so on, inverted totalitarianism aims for the mass of the populace to be in a persistent state of political apathy. The only type of political activity expected or desired from the citizenry is voting. Low electoral turnouts are favorably received as an indication that the bulk of the populace has given up hope that the government will ever help them.” (Out of a population of one million in New Hampshire, about 50 people participated regularly in the Rulemaking.)

— Sheldon Wolin

“... What is absent is the political, the commitment to finding where the common good lies amidst the welter of well-financed, highly organized, single-minded interests rabidly seeking governmental favors and overwhelming the practices of representative government and public administration by a sea of cash.”

Joy:

Joy:

She is a fucking Cunt of the Highest Order because she is of the lowest mentality in the Wailing Wall White House, and I have a sneaking suspicion her Jewish FanBoy Emoff is helping ratchet up all the Wailing White House perps in this sickness, puer sickness:

Despite charges of genocide, mass starvation, thousands of dead children, and the near-entire destruction of Gaza, when Kamala Harris was asked if she would “do anything differently” on US policy toward Israel in its bloody war, she said no.

Two peas in a cunt pod:

Polls are MEANINGLESS:

+—+

I’ll be writing about my short trip to LalaLandia, i.e, LA, or greater fucking Chlamydia Hollywood. I did finally meet face to face with Joe the Farmer from Merced.

I intend to go back soon and plumb his brain and mind and heart for some simple truths a guy who has lived most of his life “out there” in Merced, near Fresno and Modesto.

Sort of the anarchist Walden Pond kind of guy, hitting 70, bent over and arthritic, but still building a tiny home for his aching body while giving the big house on four acres to a niece.

What do we do when we get fucking old, in this shithole country?

Here, a tribute to my aunt — the reason for California was to go to a celebration of life for my Aunt Cooper. Of course, I stuck out like a sore thumb, and of course, the discourse was shut down after two post-graduate females, in their early 70s, shut down the conversation when I probed as to why Trump is so bad (he is a war criminal) but little or nothing bad to say about Genocide Joe could be broached.

End Of Conversation — We can’t talk politics. Whew, what fucking fascist Joy. The point of the dumb-downing, of the elite Ivy League schools, of the divide and conquer and of this theater of the absurd — Democrat versus Republican my ass — is to get highly radical and steeped in history and some various subject matters to pushed out of the center. The middle must hold, no? Middling, milquetoast, muffling liberalism, all that bullshit that is democratic party with a small “d” which is a sytem set about to repress, supress, blockade, upheave, destroy.

Mush from the CIA Atlantic: (or is that Mossad Atlantic?)

Amid the rise in populism, extremism, and polarization around the world, centrism is frequently dismissed by its critics as too poorly defined, too short on passion, too weak to serve as an effective response. But this misunderstands both political centrism and the dangerous trends it seeks to counter. In fact, centrism offers the most potent antidote to the excesses of populism.

To understand centrism, it’s important to clearly explain what it is not. Centrism isn’t the middle between an imaginary left and right. It isn’t a compromise between wherever the extremes happen to be dragging society at any given moment. It isn’t simply a more palatable version of socialism or a poorly disguised right-wing ploy. In short, centrism isn’t the search for an unattainable, and usually unwanted, middle point on the political spectrum.

For too long, centrism has been defined by its critics, while actual centrists have shied away from making the case for their approach loudly and proudly. That has to change, not just for the good of political centrism but for the good of liberal democracy as a whole.

Centrism has a set of core values, a set of beliefs that underpin the entire political approach: a focus on moderation and pragmatism; an embrace of complexity; a deep and unwavering commitment to liberal democracy, including the essential institutions that uphold it; an understanding of the value of compromise; a belief in equality of opportunity; a positive liberal patriotism; and a trust that through balancing the tensions that exist in every nation, we can make people’s lives better.

“The Second Coming” in full:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

My own poem as a reflection of a celebration of my Aunt’s life, after 97 years on the planet, the last ten or so shackled to dementia.

Reimagining a German Aunt in a Time of Genocide

for Ruth, in a time of reconciling my European and British roots, at a memorial, the best place sometimes for deep reflection

“Germany’s unwavering official support for the Israeli government’s actions leaves  scant room for humanity. I must call out the hypocrisy and acquiescence in the ethnic cleansing of Gaza of my own adopted country.”         -- Lana Bastasic

What would my aunt say

if I brought in Lana’s words

if only if she was alive to discuss

the things I never got to discuss with her . . .

Yet I didn’t fail to hold a tribute my aunt

in La Canada de Las Lagunas

as a juxtaposition of my aunt between worlds,

split from soil driven to

bedside nursing, almost an Iowa sodbuster

grassland roots snapping, offspring of Germanic

journeys into the Americas like a wave of pain:

12 million immigrants passed through

Ellis Island between 1892 and 1954—

some years with no passports, no papers, no visas

what would she say to me, today

in this celebration of her life when three deer plowed

into putting green of a 9 hole Laguna Hills resort

her family line photos spread across

tables, salmon, beef, risotto

served, my tequila warm on tongue

and vestiges of better times

in Dortmund – apple straddle, German

chocolate and Black Forest cakes

laid out buffet style

generations holding memories

cupping tributes to a dame

who made it to 97, here, in a land

where original peoples are forgotten

mowed away as $20 million

condos overlooking abalone bays

demand attention, oh, those other descendants

Hispania, day laborers, some blue collar

‘almost-millionaires’ pounding nails, spreading cement

holding those paperless immigrants’

palaces together

mowing the lawn, I think watching

golfers and deer compete, reminding

myself that all moments now in America

have been tainted by The Mercenary Industry

bombs and bullets for children

of the original people

across another sea in Palestine

I wonder what Ruth might say

if she had been around, cognizant as her

old self displayed at operas and dramatic plays

I wonder if she would venture

toward cultural inquisitively

about land sites occupied thousands of years

before Hollywood and freeways

cemented over memories, memory!

water scare for them then like now

the region’s seed-bearing plants the life

blood along rocky shores

and bays teaming with life

the shared language of Shoshonian

origin though natives north of Aliso

Creek would find communicating  

difficult with those in the south

I know my family line, the history

of Anglo Saxons, Celts, the Germanics

and Prussians, Vandals and the European

spasms of so much inquisition and oppression

….And the Spanish seeding of Catholicism here

almost three hundred years ago

this Franciscan, Juan Crespi, ending up in Aliso

Canyon with the cross and steel guns”

 “All the valleys and hills on both sides are of pure earth,

well-covered with grass, and without a single stone.

 So we went on over very open  country,

with hills and broad mesas,

ascending and descending through

three or four Little valleys of good soil well-grown with alders.”

Would that aunt of mine hold my words too,

son of her only sibling, brother,

me this grandson of a German soldier

Tri-plane pilot, lost at sea, then shoveling

coal post the “great” war

until a passage to Iowa meant

shedding all military, Germania pretenses?

Crispi described these original

tribes as passive and friendly;

my own tribe from Germany

aggressive and militant;

my aunt’s life one of dignity

and certainly pacific in nature

as the sky lifted woodpeckers  

and shrilling warblers drew me

into collective memory of place, time

my eye on unfamiliar family

as well as on familiar Townsend warblers,

Anna's Hummingbird, that yellow-rumped warbler

my solitude amongst many, the bone flute

notes of old people, like a calling

to me, imploring me in

my unmet desire to

really know my aunt

in her world, in this adopted world

as the shuffling feet

of polka dancers

galvanized my aunt’s own

whimsy, her laugh, the dearly cultivated

roots of her emigrant clan

following other unwashed

immigrants to a land beyond

their own rudimentary understanding

as I hold alone what it means to be

here now, with the children buried

in the rubble of a ruinous clan

called North Americans

oh what a day of respect, confusion, tribute

+—-+

End of tonight’s blog.